


not just one of the crowd

by goshemily



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bakers of the World Unite!, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily/pseuds/goshemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has never had self-control.</p><p>Enjolras, it appears, has little either. He looks up now from where he’s tinkering with wires and things – far be it from Grantaire to have a useful skill like maintenance, self- or otherwise, though he can’t help hovering, aching to give Enjolras a wrench or a screwdriver or his heart – and says, “You need more literature.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	not just one of the crowd

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Overnighter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter) for betaing, and to [miss_begonia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia), [harborshore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore), [Ark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ark), and [idiopathicsmile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/idiopathicsmile) for some much-needed hand-holding. I always need a lot of it, and you are all great. <3
> 
> Also a billion thank yous to [nisiedraws](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws) because [look at this incredible art](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/125522209277/a-quick-little-enjolras-and-grantaire-for-soemily) AUGH I'm totally overcome it is SO PERF!!!

“Joly, you _can’t_ call it ‘The Rise of the Whirr-king Class,’ literally no one is going to get it –”

“Excuse _you_ , L’Aigle, but we are going to hang a _bicycle_ in the _window_ , it’s going to be obvious. We’re a collectively-owned bakery that also does bike repair! What could be more obvious? Dough rises, wheels make a whirring sound, and the day of the proletariat will come –”

“And,” says Grantaire, “it’s not like you won’t enjoy explaining it to confused customers, hm? Perhaps slipping a pamphlet on socialism in with their raisin scones?”

Bossuet is aghast. He stops polishing the display case. “Joly. My love. My only. Well, my one of two onlys. You _promised_ me no raisin scones. You won’t go back on your word now, will you? You, a health professional? Your other job is as a _nurse_ , you can’t do this to me!” He brandishes his cleaning rag in appeal.

“But with cinnamon –”

“No!” An anguished cry.

“What have you against raisins, but that they weren’t allowed to become wine?” Grantaire makes himself theatrical, drapes himself along the ladder by the wall he’s painting. “I warrant you, _I_ prefer them in that more beguiling form, but –”

“They’re too shriveled,” Joly says. “He thinks it’s what he’ll look like soon.”

Bossuet self-consciously rubs his balding head. He’s got as many laugh-lines as a raisin; the comparison is otherwise inapt.

“I am sorry I ever brought it up.” Grantaire makes himself magnanimous, flourishes his non-existent cap. “To your ever-youthful looks, sir. And, if I might suggest: ‘Red Current?’”

Which is how, a month later, the bakery’s ‘Red Current Jam’ open mic nights get featured in the East Bay Express, alongside Musichetta’s family recipe (“Delicious on muffins! Four stars!!!”), and a photo of the staff standing outside the shop. Bossuet’s eyes are closed; Grantaire cuts out the picture and puts it in the front window.

(Bossuet cuts out the review, folds it into a hat, and puts it on Joly.)

*

It’s a weekend in July, so naturally the skies are grey over the Bay and the whole world feels like it’s poised on the brink of winter. Grantaire shivers inside a sweater more threadbare than it should be. He pushes open the door to the bakery, waiting for its warmth, and – and. And there is none.

“Are you not answering your phone for a _reason_?” Eponine looks the sharp knife she sounds. Today her hair is a luminescent aquamarine, but her scowl is more to drown a sailor than dance sun on the waves.

“It’s broken.”

She turns sharply, gestures at the kitchen. “So’s the oven. There’s somebody on his way, a friend of Courfeyrac’s.”

“The world’s a friend of his.”

She shrugs. There’s no animosity – no one can help loving Courfeyrac, if only because he loves them first, too generous – but Eponine’s a cynic. It’s one of her best traits. “Apparently he knows what he’s doing.”

There’s a polite cough at Grantaire’s back, and a golden voice says, “I try, at any rate.”

Grantaire pivots slowly. Someone’s standing in the doorway, and he’s actually unreal. He’s bronze and lithe and his smile is hesitant, like he thinks he might be unwelcome. Grantaire takes a step back, and another.

“Enjolras,” the vision says, and holds out a perfect hand to shake. “I’m here about the oven.”

It’s the last peace between them.

Grantaire wants to be silent, wants to stop his traitor mouth from betraying all the worst of him, but he takes Enjolras’s hand and says, “What if I want to name you Hephaestus and blow on your embers?” and things go downhill from there.

*

Grantaire has never had self-control.

Enjolras, it appears, has little either. He looks up now from where he’s tinkering with wires and things – far be it from Grantaire to have a useful skill like maintenance, self- or otherwise, though he can’t help hovering, aching to give Enjolras a wrench or a screwdriver or his heart – and says, “You need more literature.”

“Excuse me?” Grantaire tilts his head, studies what that does to Enjolras’s dark hair in the eco-friendly fluorescent light.

“You’ve got a perfect place by the front door for a bookshelf.”

“A free library?”

“This is the right kind of place for one.”

“And what would you have us carry – anarchist tracts? Old copies of _Maximum Rocknroll_? _The Motorcycle Diaries_?”

Enjolras’s mouth quirks. “ _Diarios de Motocicleta_ , please.”

Grantaire can’t help laughing. Eponine’s busy sweeping or studying or texting in the front, pretending she’s not listening, and it’s so easy to get caught in the fallacy of Enjolras’s half-smile.

“What?” 

“You don’t believe it, do you?”

Confusion on that rending face.

“It’s too much. Bread and brotherhood – I’ll drink to that. But bringing down the state? Hardly.” The lines of Enjolras’s face calcify, and Grantaire fumbles. “The world is already an imperfect soufflé, cratered, and it’s unlike humanity to try to raise itself.”

“So you’re not here because you believe in the project?”

Grantaire settles back on his heels, tries not to notice the disappointment in Enjolras’s shoulders. “I believe in my friends. They’re easy to see through fumes, whether of this modern factory age or of our drinking to cope.” He shrugs, wills his body a casual thing. “I like collective ownership as much as the next person. I’m happy to be my own boss. But the broader aim? There’s no point. The only certainty is humanity’s continuous degradation, and no sooner than when we reach to better our lot – look at Brutus! He reached with a knife. A man to be admired, maybe, but also a murderer.”

“Of a corrupt state.” Enjolras’s voice is clipped. His knuckles are rigid under his skin.

Grantaire nods, mired. “So I reach for my glass.”

Enjolras turns back to work. Grantaire is dismissed.

*

Red Current is always busiest after Critical Mass rides. It’s full of sweaty self-righteous cyclists, everyone clamoring to get a chain fixed or for a gluten-free blueberry muffin or a slice of vegan chocolate beer cake.

Grantaire hovers by the back door, ignoring the chaos inside in favor of a cigarette and Marius’s almost numbingly happy company.

Marius doesn’t have an actual bike basket, only a cardboard box duct-taped to her bike, but tonight she gestures to it – propped dank green against a dumpster – like it’s Pandora’s. “Grantaire, she told me I should carry a baguette. She said it would be _picturesque_.” 

“Who?” 

“A _beautiful_ girl. She was on the ride, but she had to leave early, and I don’t know her name. But she’ll be back, she has to be, I can tell she cares about things like this. ” Marius is rapturous, a hymn to hope. 

“I bet.” Grantaire’s busy with the flour on his jeans. He won’t manage to get it off, but he also can’t be fucked to do laundry before coming back to work tomorrow.

“Maybe I’ll invite her to the ABC meeting!”

“What?” There’s a patch of dried dough worked into the seam of his right leg, and if he – 

“Enjolras’s group, you know?”

He whips back to Marius. “ _Who_?”

“Courfeyrac’s friend, I thought you met him? He has an activist group, Courfeyrac’s in it, and I think one of the girls knows Joly, they work together at the needle exchange. He said they’re going to meet here once a week.”

“Joly said that?”

Marius wrinkles her forehead. “No, Enjolras. His bike is great. It’s got a wooden basket covered with protest stickers.”

So Enjolras has good calves. Of course. Of _course_. Grantaire knocks his head into the doorframe. Thunk. Why should the universe ever be fair? Thunk. Thunk.

*

The ABC meeting is on a Tuesday night, and Grantaire almost tries to get out of it, but then Joly asks for his help with a peach crumble to serve, and one thing becomes another. Grantaire swats at the flour on his nose, and only succeeds in getting it in his hair.

They’re using the last of their Brentwood U-Pick peaches, and for one longing moment Grantaire pictures another Saturday spent in an orchard so warm you can see the sweet smell of the fruit heavy in the air. He tosses some blueberries into the pan, and tries not to think about how creepy he must have sounded to Enjolras, how inappropriate. Just because he’d love to go down on him doesn’t make it right to joke about it, to not call him by his name, to not – God. He hacks sticks of butter viciously, mixes the sugar in until the dough is almost too smooth.

Joly’s sorting through the tower of CDs next to the tiny kitchen boom box, and eventually The Supremes start singing. Joly joins in as he washes dishes, “I need love, love to ease my mind,” and Grantaire can’t resist a harmony, a shimmy-shimmy-shake, and soon enough they’re coordinated, Joly boogying with suds to his elbows, Grantaire adding “ooh ooh”s as he gets the crumble in the oven and starts pushing a mop around the room.

“I keep waiting, I keep waiting, but it ain’t easy, no it ain’t easy – Enjolras! Hi!” Joly’s all enthusiasm.

Grantaire assiduously finishes his mop-stroke before he turns around. “Hi,” he says, clutching the handle for dear life.

Enjolras is standing in the kitchen doorway and he has stubble now, almost a beard. It makes him look resolute and even taller. It frames his mouth. “Hi.”

“We’re all really excited,” Joly tells him. “We thought the front room for the meeting, because the tables?”

“Perfect. Thanks so much for having us, it’s really good of you.” He nods at Grantaire. “Nice to see you again.”

“Yeah.”

*

It’s not nice. It’s electric and mad and doomed. The ABC, it turns out, is a nascent education and poverty activism group, and huddled at a table in the corner by the bike stands, Grantaire has a perfect view of just how much Enjolras believes what he says.

“Putting our wrath where it’s most needed takes planning,” he says in greeting. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m angry almost all of the time.”

Courfeyrac nods, and so does Feuilly.

Enjolras glows. “But part of what we try to do is ask how we as a community can respond, how we can use our anger to affect change. For example, we run an after-school tutoring center, but we teach organizing tactics as well as math. It seems simplistic, I know, but it’s one of the ways we can empower local kids.”

Grantaire glances around, and the faces of his friends echo the optimism of the ABC. Musichetta is intent, and Joly is whispering with the needle exchange girl.

Afterward, when the presentations are done and the ABC’s set out a sign-up sheet for volunteers, Grantaire sidles up to Enjolras. “Isn’t this a bit small picture?” he asks.

Enjolras takes a bite of crumble. “What, because I’m not advocating overthrowing the state?”

“You’ve got politicians talking about building a wall.”

“I’m Latino, so the only rage I can speak is about racist windbags?” Enjolras looks him up down, clearly dismissing what he sees. 

“I don’t know, math just seems pretty small time.”

Enjolras bares his teeth. “Sometimes we teach algebra by calculating the size of barricades.”

Grantaire’s shoulders hunch lower, and he knows that when he talks, his voice will be louder to compensate. “It’s not that I think you’re not doing good work, man. I just don’t… like, look.” He runs his hand through his hair. He’s rancid in his own skin. “Of course I think what you want is right, but it seems like you actually think it’s going to happen.”

“In my day job I’m a lawyer,” Enjolras says. “Being a repairman just pays better, because most of what I do is non-profit asylum work. If you think I believe in the goodness of humanity as a whole, you aren’t paying attention.” He eats some more crumble.

Grantaire can only stare. “You look at the worst of the world all day, and still you want to tilt at windmills?”

“I haven’t forgotten what you said about the only certainty being our lives in the mud. I just disagree.”

Grantaire fidgets and he wants to be back in his corner. “Anyone can pretend they agree with you, Enjolras, but they’ll all disappoint you in the end. If every child can be a hero, that’s only until they’re twisted into gargoyles of our adult making – there’s no sanctity left to help them be otherwise when they grow up.”

“You’re in a bakery,” Enjolras says, unmoved. “I thought you’d have learned your revolutions better.”

“Peace, land, and bread? I know my revolutions. That’s the point. Just because ordering a baker’s dozen will get you thirteen of Eponine’s cupcakes doesn’t mean the death knell of the capitalist imperial machine.”

Enjolras’s lips twitch. “Ask for work. If they don’t give you work, ask for bread. If they do not give you work or bread, then take bread.” He walks away to put his empty plate in the sink.

*

“So, Grantaire!” 

“So, Bossuet! The Eagle has landed!”

“Well, almost.” Bossuet plops himself onto the upcycled milk crate next to the low table where Grantaire is folding cloth napkins. “There we go. Are you excited for the weekly extravaganza?”

“Sure.” Weekly staff meetings were part of the appeal of joining the Joly-Musichetta-Bossuet-Eponine-Courfeyrac-Feuilly professional juggernaut; Grantaire had been promised lustily inappropriate sing-alongs of “The Internationale” with every vote taken on the bakery’s future.

“What’s cracking?”

“Besides my melanin-impaired skin and California’s dry riverbeds? I don’t know.”

Bossuet winks. “I know what _should_ be cracking.”

“If you tell me Joly’s already split those new leather pants –”

“Never! No, I just.” Bossuet takes a napkin and starts to fold. “Word on the street is that you were talking to Enjolras after the meeting.”

“By ‘word on the street,’ do you mean that you could see us from where you were, a whole twelve feet away?”

“Hey, I was shaking out a tablecloth outside the door, that _totally_ counts as the street!”

“Sure.” Grantaire ducks his head, is extremely busy with lining up the corners on the polka dot monstrosity in front of him.

“Dude, I’m not gonna make you talk about it if you don’t want. But seeing as _I_ am in the healthiest relationship you know of, and that I know of _your_ relationship inclinations, I’m just saying. You can always talk to me.”

“Did you see the review of the last Jam night in the Daily Cal today? ‘Au Courant Currants at the Current’ – did Jehan name his Cranberries tribute band _just_ so they could run that headline?”

“Probably.”

Sometimes Grantaire remembers how lucky he is in his friends. Bossuet is one of the few people in the world who will accept a topic change so blatant.

*

The ABC is taking its students to a march for immigration reform, and Tuesday night’s been given over to sign-making. There’s no reason for Grantaire to be here, except that his absence might be noted. Enjolras is a painful beacon to watch, a goad always and a mirror of everything Grantaire cannot be; it would be nice to be able to spend the evening in bed instead.

Grantaire picks up a paintbrush, puts it down, picks up his beer, gulps it, and then reaches for his brush again. Joly pats his hand consolingly.

“What slogans do we want?” Feuilly asks the room.

“We’re a collectivist bakery,” Musichetta says. “Can we really go wrong with bread and justice?”

“Classic.” Bahorel’s got a giant marker in his hand, and he starts drawing what might be bread loaves in the corners of his poster.

“Bread and roses,” Courfeyrac says. “You need both for a full life.”

Enjolras laughs. “Just don’t anyone write ‘pan de vida’ and we should be fine.”

“You’re not on a holy quest?” Grantaire can’t stop himself; he can feel a punchline rising in his throat, and he uncoils to deliver it. “The bread of life, Enjolras! Given so all might eat!”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to make a joke rooted in liberation theology?”

“If you want historical genealogy for your slogans, be careful,” Grantaire says, mouth a wide smile to provoke. “Throw in ‘patria’ with your pan y justicia and you’ve got the Falange.”

“You’re literally calling me a fascist?” Polite incredulity, more scalding indifference than anything else. 

Grantaire can see eyes roll all around the room. “Not even I would be so facetious,” he says.

Bahorel grins. “Besides, it’s already almost as close to the communists – exchange the homeland for work and liberty.”

“I would. Readily.” Enjolras turns to Bahorel’s table, the arc of his neck uninterested in any bon mots. He’s too made of purpose to ever pause long.

The conversation moves on, leaving Grantaire behind.

*

Grantaire is sweeping up before a meeting, humming along to The Crystals, when Enjolras shows up early. He’s been doing that less lately, arriving mostly when things are well under way and not staying late after. He’s worn out and run down, the circles under his eyes an indictment. His t-shirt – old, faded, The Clash standing in black and white – is the most solid-seeming thing about him.

“Hi, Grantaire.”

“Hi.” They can have a civil conversation. It’s possible.

“Do you want some help?”

“I’m good.”

Enjolras sits heavily on the overstuffed couch next to the display of tires, settles himself. “Okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” 

“Why don’t you get some sleep?”

He smiles. It’s heartbreaking on his face, a kind of rictus that’s hard to look away from, and for once Grantaire doesn’t try. “I might be too tired to sleep, honestly.”

There’s an interstice between them, a lacuna, no way for Grantaire to make Enjolras see that sometimes he should take care of himself as well as the world. “You never lose faith,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras opens his eyes. He’s haggard. “Do we have to do this again? You don’t even try to understand.”

Grantaire stops sweeping. “The world’s a broken place. Why should I? The cathedral vault cracked a long time ago, but it’s not daylight that’s coming in.”

Enjolras looks consumed, laid out too hollow-faced on the couch. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to want something all the time, and to be mocked and ridiculed for your hope?”

“Some idea,” Grantaire says.

“Hope is action.” Enjolras’s voice scathes even though it’s rough from lack of sleep. “If you’re too capricious to really join us, could you at least stop mocking me for trying?”

Grantaire’s robot flesh is peeled back and all his wires are exposed, everything that makes him too much and too little. He gulps air through his mouth. “Sure,” he says. His hands are made of shards. He carries his broom carefully to the kitchen closet, and leaves out the back door.

*

Grantaire avoids the ABC nights for a few weeks, pleads off in a way that makes Joly tight-lipped and Eponine call him pathetic, although somehow she manages to be good-natured about it. “It’s not that I don’t get it,” Feuilly says to him on a rare overlapping shift, “as that I think maybe you’re making too much of everything. Just come be with your friends, that’s all.”

On a Monday evening when the café is closed, Grantaire sets up a tiny shelf within easy reach of the tables. He stocks it with some of Feuilly’s zines, and adds in a couple of Marius’s poetry translations. He thinks about getting some Emma Goldman books, and paints “Free Library” on the wall above the shelf so that this will be permanent – he doesn’t trust himself not to take it down before tomorrow’s meeting, otherwise.

There’s a knock on the glass door and he glances up. He unlocks it, and Enjolras comes inside.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says.

“No, I’m sorry.” Grantaire wraps his fingers carefully around his paintbrush in case they tremble.

“I didn’t know I’d upset you; I never would have said that, otherwise.”

Grantaire nods. He can’t believe deliberate malice of Enjolras, at least not to friends of friends.

“Will you forgive me?” Enjolras’s austere face looks as sincere as it’s ever been.

“Of course,” Grantaire says, probably too quickly, and turns for the kitchen. He starts washing his brush, and when he’s sure the water’s loud enough to hide however his voice betrays him, he adds, “Look, I was an asshole. I don’t mean to push your buttons so hard. I hope you know I respect what you do.”

“Maybe we can talk about it?” Enjolras asks.

“Sure,” Grantaire says, like it’s not the worst idea he’s ever heard. Words haven’t helped them understand each other yet; why would they now? He sticks his brush in a mug to dry and sits on a stool by the boom box, starts organizing the CDs by band name.

Enjolras sits on the other stool. “Do you want to begin?”

“Not really,” Grantaire says, and puts The Splinters behind The Slits. 

Enjolras waits. Then: “Could you look at me?”

Grantaire shakes his head, but he puts his hands flat on the counter and faces Enjolras. “I just don’t get how it’s so _easy_ for you.”

“What about this do you think is easy?” 

“All of it.” 

Enjolras closes his eyes, the brief shadow-play of his lashes a hallowing, and then he looks at Grantaire. Grantaire feels laid bare. “None of it is easy,” Enjolras says. His voice is quiet, and Grantaire is a chasm. “Not the violence. Not the jokes. Not listening to everyone outside telling me to go back across the border. Not wanting so much more than this.”

“So how do you get up in the morning?”

“I can’t do anything else.” Enjolras shrugs, awkward and almost inelegant. “The world should be better. It’s incumbent on me to try to help.”

Words are too heavy in Grantaire’s mouth. “You never lose faith,” he says again.

Enjolras reaches toward him and takes Grantaire’s hand. He turns it so Grantaire’s palm faces upward, cupped. “I have no faith in systems,” he says. “But I know too many good people willing to tend parched land to let myself give up trying to build something new.”

Grantaire can’t help a half-smile. “I’m no watering can. A carafe, at best.”

Enjolras slides their fingers together, and now they’re palm to palm. He holds on. “You’d still march in solidarity,” he says, “just to be with your friends.”

“That’s not worth much.”

“More than you think.”

Grantaire is made of sparrows. He can feel his pulse fluttering. He tries not to breathe quickly, tries not to move at all. Enjolras’s hand is so warm.

“Revolution is an act of love,” Enjolras says. “We all know you’d show up.”

“I’d be late,” Grantaire mutters, reflexive.

Enjolras laughs. He doesn’t let go. “You’d be there in the end,” he says.

There’s an ocean of longing inside Grantaire, and the way Enjolras looks at him hurts.

“I can want human things, too,” Enjolras says.

“What?”

“Every struggle is made up of people. That’s why I care so much. None of it’s attenuated.” He swallows, his hand tightens. “I think you might feel the same.”

Grantaire feels his own eyes widen, can’t believe the small hesitating smile on Enjolras’s face. “Um. What?”

“I like you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

“Um. Okay?” Grantaire is dizzy. Something’s swooping inside him, something nebulous. He can’t stop his own smile, and Enjolras’s grows.

“Do you want to go out sometime?”

“There’s always tonight,” Grantaire says, and that’s when Enjolras leans forward to kiss him.

His mouth is soft, yielding in a way that’s a surprise, but the rasp of his stubble when he rubs his cheek against Grantaire’s – and then again, when Grantaire’s breath catches – is something out of Grantaire’s dreams. Enjolras stands up, and they’re at a disadvantage until suddenly Enjolras’s hands are on Grantaire’s ass and he hoists him onto the counter, and Grantaire starts laughing even before he runs his hand through the flour always inescapable and streaks it down Enjolras’s dark shirt.

Enjolras grins into the skin of Grantaire’s neck. “This is going to be fun,” he says.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> So much bread talk in this story! “[Peace, Land, and Bread](http://www.bbc.co.uk/schools/gcsebitesize/history/mwh/russia/leninandbolshevikrevolutionrev1.shtml)” was a Bolshevik slogan. Enjolras quotes the anarchist [Emma Goldman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emma_Goldman), who called for the poor to take bread if it was not given. As a phrase, “pan y justicia” (“bread and justice”) is usually associated with leftist populist movements; Bahorel notes that Chile's Communist Party wanted “[Bread, Work Justice and Liberty](http://www.memoriachilena.cl/602/w3-article-77771.html).” However, it has (of course) also served right-wing parties: as Grantaire points out, the fascist [Falange](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falange_Espa%C3%B1ola_y_de_las_JONS) called for fighters “Por la Patria, el Pan, y la Justicia” (“For the Homeland, Bread, and Justice”).
> 
> Enjolras's philosophy that revolution is an act of love is drawn from Paulo Freire's _[Pedagogy of the Oppressed](http://www.historyisaweapon.com/defcon2/pedagogy/pedagogychapter3.html#fn:4)_.
> 
> [Critical Mass](http://www.sfcriticalmass.org/faq) is a thing. So is vegan chocolate beer cake; I'm a big fan of [this recipe](http://www.keepitsimplefoods.com/desserts/vegan-chocolate-guinness-cake).
> 
> The title is from “[He's a Rebel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_SXJ18EkNw).” The song Joly and Grantaire dance to in the kitchen - with Enjolras desperately wanting to join in - is, of course, “[You Can’t Hurry Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qOiNnK7AFg).” :D


End file.
